


A Happy Ending

by round_robin



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cabinlock, Gen, Implied Relationships, Post Reichenbach, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 03:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Martin finally gets a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Happy Ending

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evansentranced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evansentranced/gifts).



> Written for my roommate, who was so depressed by all the Cabin Pressure fanfiction, I decided to write her one where nothing bad happens to Martin. She also likes the Cabinlock cross over situation where Sherlock, Martin and Mycroft are all brothers, and Sherlock and Mycroft just love fighting for Martin's attention, so I gave her that too.
> 
> The Sherlock/John is only there if you squint. She didn't ask for that, but I wasn't writing a post Reichenbach fic without it.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Please include any typos along with your comments and they will be seen to!

Martin felt badly for missing the funeral. He’d only just heard about it as they were taking off for Madrid. Mycroft rang him on the SatCom. How he got the number was anyone’s guess, but then again, it was Mycroft. Martin was so shocked by the news that he had to ask Douglas to take control.

After he managed to collect himself and explain the situation, he noticed that Douglas kept picking word games that Martin was particularly good at. And Carolyn gave him the camembert off the cheese tray. And Arthur. Well, Arthur was just Arthur. It was all very nice of them; Martin had never felt so loved. Still… it wasn’t every day one’s brother died.

Half brother, really, but that made no difference. Family was family.

He couldn’t be there for the funeral either—they were taking some art collector down to Rome. Martin privately thought that if he could afford to go art shopping in Rome, he could probably afford to hire a proper airline, but he didn’t say anything. Carolyn did apologize for making him miss it, which was just as good as having the day off. Carolyn never apologized. Least of all to her pilots.

The next time they had a stopover in London, Martin made sure he had at least a day to himself (he may or may not have asked Mycroft to hire MJN to fly to London and dawdle there while he took care of things).

He had a flatmate—friend, whatever, Mycroft was vague with his explanation, typical—who was really the only one worth expressing condolence to, so Martin went there.

It looked like exactly the sort of place he would live, if that meant anything. It had an old sort of Victorian charm, but without the fussy, repressive air Holmes Manor had. Martin could see why he would like it.

When he knocked on the front door, he expected the land lady to answer. The door opened and a man a little taller than Martin appeared. “Yes?” He said.

Martin hadn’t even said anything yet. He just stood there and watched the color drain from the other man’s face. Hands scrambled to grab at the edges of the door frame as he started to fall back. “Sh-Sherlock!”

“Oh no,” Martin reached forward and grabbed onto his shoulder, the other hand sliding behind his back to steady him. It almost worked. “No, no. I’m not Sherlock.”

He felt like an idiot. He could never seem to remember that he looked more like Sherlock than Mycroft did. Most of their striking facial traits came from their mother; the height came from the Holmes’ side, which explained why Martin didn’t have any. And now, because of his forgetfulness, he’d almost given Sherlock’s grieving friend a coronary.

“My name is Martin Crieff,” he said once everything had calmed down again. “I take it you’re John Watson?”

“Yes,” John gave a half nod, and then rested his head against the door frame. His eyes swept over Martin’s face in fast little flicks. “Sherlock… you look…”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think about how off-putting the strong family resemblance would be.”

“Family?” John seemed to be having trouble with complete sentences at the moment. Martin didn’t blame him.

“Yeah, it’s um, it’s a long story. Shall we go up to your flat? Might be, might be easier.” He said. Bracing against Martin, they managed the stairs.

When they were finally up in the sitting room, John had collected himself enough to make tea. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Just a little… shocking.” His eyes kept flicking over Martin. Taking in all the differences and all the similarities.

“Right,” Martin smiled. “No one expects their dead flatmate to show up again, do they?” John paused halfway in his chair, eyes wide. “Oh God! Sorry! I didn’t mean to bring that up! I mean, that’s why I’m here—to talk about him. Give my condolences. But I didn’t mean to remind you of—”

A soft giggle met Martin’s ears and cut off his stammer. He lifted his head to see a wide grin stretched across John’s face, the giggling getting louder and turning into a full out chuckle.

Martin laughed too. “As you can see, Sherlock and Mycroft got all the social grace.”

“Oh yeah,” John laughed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” But he couldn’t stop giggling.

“No please, it’s true.” Martin said, feeling much better now that John was no longer so shell-socked.

“You said you’re Sherlock’s brother?” He asked. “No offence, but he didn’t mention you.” John stopped stirring his tea for a moment. “Though now that I think of it, he didn’t mention Mycroft either. Not until after he’d kidnapped me.”

“Yes, Mycroft does that.” Had Martin not flat-out told Mycroft to stay away from MJN, Douglas might’ve found a long, black car following him around on many occasions. It also helped that Mycroft hated the North country. “I’m their illegitimate half-brother.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t think the Holmes family would have a scandal like that. Poisoned glasses of wine at Christmas, assassination attempts, falling out over sitting the wrong cousins next to each other. Never anything so…”

“Classic?” Martin smiled. “It wasn’t even that much of a scandal, really. Their father and my dad’s wife both passed around the same time, my parents met somewhere… and it didn’t work. They gave it up as a bad job, but our mum still ended up pregnant with me. Sherlock was four at the time, and Mycroft was, I think eleven?” He scratched his head, unsettling his pilot’s hat.

“There isn’t much of the Holmes family left, so there was no one to really care. Sherlock and Mycroft were thrilled, you can imagine. Finally a brother they could both baby.”

“Right,” John nodded. He didn’t know why, but the idea of a toddler Sherlock—just out of his crib-bed and into a real nursery—would love the idea of having someone to look out for rather than being the one kept in check. And Mycroft would simply love another baby, especially one that liked him better than Sherlock did.

“Only half-siblings?” John asked. Martin nodded and John shook his head. “It’s funny. You look so… similar.” More like exactly alike. If Sherlock didn’t have at least six inches on Martin and a full head of black hair, he would’ve thought they were the same person. And then he would’ve ended up punching Sherlock’s brother…

“The… unique facial features are all mum’s side. The height is from the Holmes family. As is Sherlock’s dark hair. Mycroft and I are a bit lighter.” Pulling his hat off, he tipped his head forward to show John the head full of ginger curls. “When I was born, it was blonde. Sherly called me Goldie Locks.”

John snorted into his tea. He was not expecting that. “Sherly?”

“Yeah,” Martin had never told anyone about that little nickname. It was a good thing Sherlock was dead; he would’ve killed him for letting that slip. “I stayed with dad and my other siblings up in Wokingham. As mum told it, Sherlock and Mycroft were heartbroken that I couldn’t stay, but it really was best. They were all still living in Holmes manor with Holmes money, and I wasn’t a Holmes. That certainly would’ve brought the family’s ire.”

Martin sat back in his chair and stared into his tea. It wasn’t that he minded talking about his family… that was why he came, after all, he just didn’t like thinking about that part of his brothers’ family. Sherlock and Mycroft loved him well enough, always saying that the dotty old Holmes clan was daft for looking down on him, and that was enough for Martin.

“That’s unfortunate.” John sighed. “Did you get to see them much while you were growing up?”

“Oh yeah,” Martin nodded. “I saw them for Christmas and other holidays, birthdays and such.” A smile crossed his face when he remembered a story that might interest John. “Mycroft took me to my first day of primary school. He was already at his A-levels, getting ready to be the master of the world, and he came up to take me to school. Waited all day for me and we went out for ice cream later. Then of course, Sherlock had to retaliate and made it so I could spend the summer at the manor. Somehow, he talked my dad into letting me go for two months.”

“That’s a side of Sherlock I’ve never heard of before.” John smiled, but there was something sad in it. In all the times he’d seen the crushing loneliness radiating from his brothers’ faces, he knew what that look meant.

Setting his cup down, Martin leaned forward and placed his hand on John’s shoulder. “John, Sherlock told me about you. Just a few times when he called to see how I was, but that was enough.” John’s head lifted and Martin could see tears shining in his eyes. Oh hell, he was so bad at this. Still, he pressed on.

“I was so glad to hear that he had you. I mean, he was always asking after me, trying to see if my life was going well, but I was always worried about him. He was always so lonely.” A gentle squeeze. “Until he met you.”

John let out a shuddering gasp and Martin pulled his hand away. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Was that the wrong thing to say? I always say the wrong thing. It’s just—”

John held up a hand to stop him, tears rolling down his face even as he smiled over at Martin. “No, that was exactly the right thing. Thank you.”

“Yes,” Martin nodded. “No, no problem.”

He stayed for a while, telling more stories about growing up with Sherlock and Mycroft. Despite his tears, John seemed to enjoy it. When it was time for Martin to leave, he gave John his mobile number and told him to call any time. To talk about Sherlock or not… it didn’t matter.

Martin was about to walk out the door when John stopped him. “Hey,” he said. He turned around to see the other man looking at his shoes. “Do you, uh… do you have any photos from back then? That I could have?”

“Sure,” Martin nodded. He may not have very much in the way of personal possessions, but Mycroft and Sherlock were very insistent on sending him family photos at various intervals of their lives. He had about two dozen albums full of photos of his visits with them, another dozen with photos of just Sherlock and Mycroft and their major life events.

And then he had a scrap book Sherlock put together filled with printouts of John’s blog. He knew that Martin didn’t usually have internet access, so he printed them out for him. And annotated them. Some of his comments were actually quite nice, as he pointed out the exact moment he knew he loved John and when he knew John loved him back.

He was sure John would enjoy having those.

“I don’t want to take any of your things,” John said, already trying to back out. Perhaps he thought it too embarrassing to ask a man he just met for things of such a personal nature.

“No, it’s fine,” Martin said. “Really, I have more than enough family photos of them. You can keep whatever I send you.”

“Yes,” John nodded. “Thank you.”

Not wanting to prolong his embarrassment, Martin bid him goodbye and walked out into the cold London air.

 

~

 

“Well?”

As soon as he’d knocked on the door, a hand shot out and yanked Martin inside. He barely had a chance to find his feet when his brother was demanding answers from him.

“How was he? How did he look?”

“Calm down, Sherlock!” Mycroft called from the other end of the hall. “Give Martin a chance to sit down.”

The hand fisted on his lapels instantly softened and Martin looked up into sad blue eyes. So much like his own, yet wholly different. No matter how low his low points, he’d never had to do anything like this… not to someone he loved.

He pat Sherlock on the arm and they went to join Mycroft in his study. He offered them scotch, which they both rejected, Sherlock because he was too anxious, Martin because he had to fly tomorrow.

Martin was actually surprised when Sherlock waited for him to sit down before barraging him with questions again. “So? How was he? How did he seem? He’s not sleeping with his gun again, is he?” Mycroft had found that one out a few weeks ago and promptly sent Lestrade to put a stop to it.

“Grieving, but otherwise fine,” Martin said. He shot Sherlock a sharp look. “You’re a bastard, by the way. If I didn’t know that your life and his depended on this whole bloody ruse of yours, I would’ve told him as soon as I saw him.”

Sherlock waved a hand, waving the statement away. “Yes, that has been established. And if I didn’t need to do this to keep John safe, I wouldn’t be living here with Mycroft. Is he eating?”

Oh, how many times had Sherlock asked him that same question? It was always so bizarre, coming from a man who didn’t eat much himself. “He looked fine,” he said. “Not over or under weight, nothing like that. He was just… sad.” Sherlock’s frown deepened. “He misses you.”

The room was quiet for a moment. Mycroft kept his distance and stared into the fire, while Martin watched Sherlock. All these lies… they were taking their toll on his brother. Yes, Sherlock lied all the time, he misled to get what he needed, but it was always his choice. This decidedly was not. He’d been forced into this by a madman and now he had to clean up the world before he was allowed to reclaim his life. And declaring himself a fraud. Martin knew his brother, and he knew that had to hurt more than anything.

“He asked me for some photos of you,” he whispered. “Some stuff from when we were kids.”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, but didn’t say anything more.

After another moment, Mycroft walked over and shoved a glass into Sherlock’s hands. “Drink this. I won’t have you tearing about the house all night because you need to walk your mind palace.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered and took a sip anyways.

Martin tried to hide his smile. That right there. It was his brothers all over. They sniped, they fought for his attention—always wanting to be the favorite brother—but behind it all, they loved each other. Mycroft just happened to show his love by over-mothering, while Sherlock showed it through grand, slightly illegal gestures.

“I wired some money into your account,” Sherlock said finally, once he’d drained his glass and Mycroft had refilled it. Twice.

Martin rolled his eyes. “I told you not to pay me for this! I did it because you asked, not because I wanted anything from you.”

“And we’re still going to insist on giving you money,” Mycroft said. He lingered at the arm of Sherlock’s chair, not touching him, but still closer than usual. Strangely enough, Sherlock made no protests about it. But they were always in agreement when it came to Martin.

“Honestly Marty,” Mycroft shook his head. “You can’t stay in that awful attic. And look at you! You’re skin and bones! No brother of ours is going to starve himself, not when we can provide for you.”

“I don’t want to be provided for!” Martin growled. That was perhaps the only thing he didn’t like about his brothers: they were more than willing to provide for him, yet all Martin wanted to do was make his own way in the world. He still felt like he owed Sherlock for the money he gave him to retake his CPL.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock sighed. “It’s your money. Mummy left you a portion of her estate when she passed.”

“Yes, and that was _Holmes_ money. I am not a Holmes.” And he didn’t mind in the least, his mum and brothers loved him, so did the rest of his family. That was all he needed.

“It’s already in your account,” Mycroft said. “Use it to get yourself a decent flat.”

“Mycroft!” Yes, his voice was climbing to a very undignified pitch. He didn’t care. Mycroft shouldn’t be meddling… “It’s not my money!”

“Who cares if it is?” Sherlock snapped, sneering into the fire. “Mummy left it for you, and so you shall have it. Considering Mycroft has been Earl Holmes since Father passed, I don’t think anyone else is going to dare question it. Just… let us help you.”

Sherlock’s face did him in. The sad, defeated eyes that were ringed with too much black. That would do him in every time. “Alright,” Martin said. “Thank you. I’ll tell you when I have my new address.” He didn’t even need to wait to see the figure, it would be more than enough to find a better flat. Hell, with his cut of their mother’s estate, he could probably buy his own island. Just a small one, probably off the coast of New Zealand.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft spoke for both he and Sherlock, as Sherlock was too busy staring into the fire. Martin didn’t blame him; he had a lot to deal with just now.

Though he wished he could stay, he really did need to get back to the hotel. Carolyn would be suspicious and Douglas would probably make lewd jokes about Martin accidentally finding the seedy side of London. Little did he know that Martin had spent part of the night surrounded by whiskey that made Talisker look like McHamish’s.

Mycroft provided a car to take him back. Of course. Hugging both his brothers, he made them promise to visit soon, even though he knew they wouldn’t.

In the car on the way back, Martin’s long-silent phone pinged. Probably Carolyn, he thought. But no. It was John. Just a simple text.

_Next time you’re in London, want to go for a pint?_

_JW_

Martin smiled at the sign off. Having received enough texts from Sherlock, he knew where John picked up the habit. He quickly wrote out his reply.

_I would love to. And if you’re ever up Fitton way, I can show you around the air field I work at._

_Martin_

_Thanks_

_JW_

He didn’t text back. Nothing else really needed to be said. He’d checked on John as a favor to his brother, and if John needed a friend, well, he’d do that too. Now, Martin knew that his brothers were safe—or would be safe—and he had a new friend. For once, things seemed to be going his way. He couldn’t wait for this business with Sherlock’s death to be over so they could all enjoy life again, him, Sherlock, Mycroft and John.

He felt very much like Arthur at that moment, but really, was it so wrong to want a happy ending for everyone? Martin didn’t think so.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Martin gets to see his brothers, he makes a new friend, and now has enough money to move out of his crappy attic room. What could be better than that?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Nome (or, Weren't You in Here Last Week?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/470726) by [evansentranced](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evansentranced/pseuds/evansentranced)




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